


Casualties

by veridical



Series: Tips For Ruining Your Business [7]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Drinking, Gen, Maccadam's, Poetry, mystery?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 17:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3945940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veridical/pseuds/veridical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time, it's not Blurr's business that's in trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Casualties

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, okay. So this is... something else. I think this began as a prompt from my jellyfish friend that sounded something like "Blurr injured in a race, Swindle worried", and the more I thought about it, the more it grew into something completely different in my mind. The fact remains that this is different in tone, length, atmosphere and POV from typical Tips fics (I did actually write a Swindle POV once before, in Decorations, but that was soo not the plan). Hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Good news is that the next one is pretty much finished, so it won't be far behind! :)

The first day, Swindle came in late. The concept of "late" was already a faulty one: neither him nor the bar itself kept regular hours, though Swindle made sure to never come _too early_ \- and risk a meeting with a closed door. He didn't mind waiting, but looking as if he was that eager to get there - ugh, no.

But today he had another meeting with _them_ , and it was too far away, and since he couldn't ride anymore, he had to walk to Maccadam's. Walking meant thinking and _remembering_ , and it was in this state that he reached the bar.

Right, right. Let go. Finally, another evening - and he could leave everything else behind. There will be drinks - good drinks, unlike the slag he has to suffer at _their_  hands, - it will be loud, it will be noisy, it will be perfect.

It _was_ loud. And quite crowdy. Blurr was nowhere to be seen, but Swindle went to his usual seat nonetheless. It was situated quite neatly in the farthest corner of the bar, hiding him from most of the customers, but letting him see if he wanted to.

He had barely taken the datapad out of his subspace when he was glomped from behind. Oh-- there was only one possible suspect.

"Blurr! How many times do I have to tell you, one day the Decepticon instincts - or should I say, _war_ instincts - will get the better of me, and you'll get a kick right in your pretty face."

"You wouldn't dare screw with this face," Blurr replied, slowly letting him go, dragging his fingers against Swindle's arms.

"Try me."

But his plating tingled pleasantly where Blurr had pressed himself up against him, and-- and he was already on the other side of the bar, of course. And filling a glass for him.

Swindle was having none of it.

"No. That's it. If I drink, you gotta drink as well."

"But I'm the bartender," Blurr whispered theatrically, " _you know_. I can't drink. On the job." He giggled.

Swindle exploded. "Oh, enable your FIM-chip, for all I care!"

There was an unwritten rule - enabling your FIM-chip while others didn't was... well, cheating and considered, unanimously, very bad sport. If you weren't ready for the consequences of the engex, you shouldn't be drinking. Nobody wanted a spoilsport who teased everyone else the next day.

Once in a while Swindle actually wondered if maybe Fat Tankor had it permanently enabled, considering how sour he often seemed.

"Besides, it's not that _strong_. I'm certain  _you_  can handle it."

Flattery generally didn't work on Blurr - surely he heard it all and more in his racing days, - yet somehow, the ex-Autobot grinned and poured himself a small glass of pink bubbly engex. "Oh, alright. You win. This time."

Swindle smiled back. A small victory was still a victory.

He waited until Blurr tried it, watching intently. The bartender frowned at the first taste.

"Wow. I knew it was sweet, but _this_?"

"Oh come _on_. Not that sweet, surely."

"Well, excuse me for having more refined tastes."

"Pffffft, right."

It was not lying if he wasn't telling the whole truth. Blurr didn't have to know. Surely it couldn't be screwing too much with the taste?

"...Okay, I admit. it's not that bad, actually." Blurr gulped the rest of his drink.

Swindle smiled triumphantly.

 

When they had first approached him, he was getting beyond desperate. A couple valuable and easy deals had just slipped away out of his hands at the last moment, and he was this close to agreeing to almost everything (except for blackmail; way more life hazard than he was ready to handle).

This one almost seemed too easy at first. Nothing too difficult; some snooping around, some personal information passed on. Well-paid, almost too much.

He didn't get into details. So some NAILs had troubles with other NAILs. It was none of his business, and frankly? to Pit with them. He had his share of neutrals at Maccadam's.

No, the job itself was not the problem. It was the appointments they kept scheduling with him. Irregular, short-notice, long and _useless_. All they said could be told via secure comm-lines.

But then, in that case they wouldn't be able to offer him a drink.

 

He had the next few days free - a luxury one can only afford themselves when there's a deal that's paying _so well_  that one can stop looking for more.

As a result, the Old Oil House barely had any customers when he came in on the next day.

"You're early," Blurr noted, and Swindle barely suppressed a scowl: this was exactly the thing he was wishing to avoid. But the next thing the blue mech did was smile widely. "That's nice."

Blurr's field tickled and buzzed comfortably at the edge of his own, and the feeling nearly brought up some files he tried to bury deep into his memory stores. Stop. This was just Blurr, being stupidly friendly.

"Yeah, well," he muttered. Where was his vocabulary when he needed it? "Don't get used to it."

"I'll try," Blurr replied. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but the door chimed, and then the bartender swiftly raced over to the new arriving customers.

He was getting better at this.

Swindle lowered his optics and saw a glass of engex right under his nose. Dang, he _really_ was getting better at this.

Despite the slow start, it seemed to be growing into a busy night. Blurr barely had time to stay at the counter before someone called him over. Swindle didn't mind. At some point, one of the Tankors - his former comrade, in fact, though they had barely met during the war; wasn't that funny, - sat beside him and entertained him with an occasional phrase. He was pleasant company; not very loud-mouthed nor constantly bitter about _everything_. Once again Swindle relished his choice of faction.

"Wheeew," Blurr said during a brief respite, practically splaying himself all over the bar counter. The air was coming out of all of his vents, and it looked like a small cloud had gathered around him. His back thrusters emanated heat. "What's the fraggin' occasion?" he asked in a muffled voice.

Swindle was ready to spill something about how obviously everyone finally realised that a) there was a bar in the neighbourhood, b) they were stuck with Starscream as their chosen leader and despertely needed a drink, - but then he watched Blurr knock out a medium-sized glass in one go, barely lifting his helm to do it. It was... weirdly impressive.

"Hey, isn't that--"

"Yeah," Blurr replied a little breathlessly. "Takes some getting used to, but it's not that bad, once you try it, I gotta hand it to you--"

"Whoa, slow down." Swindle put a hand over the glass as Blurr went to refill it. "The night isn't over. Besides, I thought you'd take a look at this..."

"Hey! Racing boy! Over here!"

"Coming!" Blurr called out, smiled apologetically and rushed away.

Swindle looked around and took in the motley crowd. There were some new faces here, that was true. Faces, and helms, and a couple empuratas, and was that a robotic lizard?

It's funny. He had no idea NAILs already managed to have such intricate relations by now. But then, they were Cybertronians, as well, and he knew all too well what everybody said about Cybertronians. Including the NAILs themselves. He supposed the name was unfair; he would be - _act_ - offended if anybody called him a Decepticon now, - but the habit was still hard to let go of. He didn't use the shorthand term to their faces (or helms, or empuratas, or… that thing), obviously: no need to be rude. Diplomacy was a cornerstone of his work.

Keeping good track of everything was another, and he watched, amused and smiling, as Blurr struggled to make sense of the latest update on the bar's paperwork.

"Need help?"

"I can handle it!" Blurr exclaimed. "You can't _always_ be around."

Of course. Well, obviously, he couldn't. It was Cybertron. Nothing lasted here for too long - except for war.

 

Swindle knew how these things went. When something is bigger than silly old you, you don't question it when you're offered a drink. Even if it's got nothing on what Blurr offered in Maccadam's - even if his acutely tuned sensors immediately picked up something - something too sweet, too tasty, too _addictive_.

Ah. So they slipped something in his drink. Presumably to incapacitate him. Probably, to have a winning card in case the other side found out and won him over. Smart. Not _too_ smart; if they thought he didn't have a long experience with different types of poison both Cybertronian and off-world... they'd have to think again.

He swallowed dutifully.

The deal was too valuable. Frankly speaking, his situation was slag right now; without the free drinks Blurr kept supplying him, he would simply not have any fuel to live, even if he drank the simplest stuff available.

But he couldn't live on one Autobot's generousity (still, even now, an _Autobot_ , there was no way around it, as if a fellow con would do that sort of slag - well, maybe someone like _Tankor_ ). It was not like he wanted to do this any longer.

But there wasn't much choice, was there? Not when his other option was _slums_ and some more slums and dragging his sorry frame to the Old Oil House to endure Blurr's fretting-- right, enough of that. He was supposed to be separating the two things.

And it was working perfectly half the time: he wasted zero time thinking about _them_ and how long that business would last when he was sitting at the bar counter. In the dark barely-lit alleys of Metroplex, though, his thoughts always went back to the bright warmth of the bar.

 

The third day, Blurr kept throwing glances at him, opening his mouth, and then being whisked away by a swarm of needy customers.

"Is there some problem?" Swindle finally asked, having lost all patience.

Blurr ventilated loudly, reached for new glasses under the bar and put them on the counter.

"No. Yes. Uh. It's, I mean, it's not me, it's-- agh, I thought you would--" He nearly pushed a glass off the bar and swore.

"Whoa there. Okay. Got it. Calm down," Swindle replied, stunned by the violent display. "Uh. We can deal with that later. Let me help." He held out his hand to steady the glass right as he reached out with his field.

The bartender smiled back helplessly and touched Swindle's palm. The merchant froze, unable to ignore the steady, warm pulsing of Blurr's EM-field, reaching too close, its touch almost intimate.

"You always help," Blurr said. Swindle's spark chamber seemed to squeeze, and he struggled for the right words. It all seemed so-- so similiar to that night.

Then Blurr coughed. Once, twice, he leaned against the counter. Swindle could swear he could hear clicking.

"Are you alright?" he asked slowly.

"Ah. I guess so," Blurr replied, straightening up. "Just some rusty fuel lines, I think. Happens."

"If you're sure," Swindle said doubtfully. He curled his hand around his glass, almost drinking it up before he remembered that he forgot to spill a little something in there.

 

Swindle drank the antidote in Maccadam's.

They couldn't see him here, and even so, they would never guess he slipped something in his usual drink. During _meetings_ , he tried to act as physically frail as possible, walking slowly, coming late, never changing shape.

Until, one day, he discovered he couldn't.

"It's fine," he told himself. He would not panic. He would break the deal the moment the symptoms became life-threatening, but not _before_. He took calculated risks. He was not altmode-dependant. It was an unfortunate consequence, but one he was prepared to suffer; for now.

That was the day Blurr first asked him about leaving together.

Swindle took calculated risks; he _couldn't_ risk Blurr finding anything about the job, or worse, drag him into it. He laughed it off.

Blurr looked hurt, but it wasn't the first time. He always got over it. Whatever delusions he harboured about Swindle being nice, he... well, wasn't. He was a tired ex-Decepticon scrambling to survive in post-war world. Blurr was a happy owner of, all things considered, a well off bar. 

It was ridiculous to wish for anything beyond the current predicament. Especially considering how the current predicament got him free drinks, free smiles and hugs that costed nothing but a feeling that lasted far too long, beyond Maccadam's last call.

 

Blurr was throwing glances his way on the fourth day, as well. It lasted all of two hours before the bartender cornered him. Which, if you considered Swindle's choice of seat, was hardly a feat.

"We have to talk."

Swindle raised an optical ridge.

"We always talk." Which meant "you always talk", but he was polite.

But there was no denying the concern he could feel in the blue mech's EM-field. He didn't even have to look at him.

"Well?" he prompted.

"I'm not sure you remember that time a few nights ago, but. I know you have - that there's something wrong with - I-know-you-can't--"

"I remember," Swindle cut him off calmly.

He remembered it perfectly. Blurr's hand under his own, the heavy buzz of intoxication, soft music in the background, reaching out to touch him, getting out and holding on, falling into recharge at his place - troubled and restless, disturbed by the poison in his systems which kept him coming online. Blurr talking and talking. The road back which he took alone. Apparently, Blurr's recharge schedule was even more irregular than the bar's hours.

There was probably a straightforward correlation here somewhere.

"Well, I thought you'd come to me about this," Blurr huffed, "but since you didn't, I'll just have to ask. What is going on with you? Why can't you change shape?"

Swindle rolled his eyes. He chose his words carefully, weighing the amount he could say. After all, having a way with words was another cornerstone of his work. Lest he forgot that; lest Blurr forgot that.

"It's a side-effect." He looked away. "Nothing fatal. I'm handling it. There's this job, and-- they can't know that I know. It's not yet over."

"Why?" the bartender exploded, tires screeching. "Why do you have to do this?"

"Because this is _my_  business,” Swindle snapped.

He almost felt bad about the affronted look Blurr gave him.

"Fine," the ex-racer said bitterly and stormed off to another far counter of the bar.

He really liked doing that, Swindle realised.

He slipped some antidote into his drink and prepared for a night of quiet.

 

It took Blurr another two hours to come round, which was still impressive. Swindle suspected he was really bad at staying mad, but had no way of proving it short of angering Blurr with no apparent purpose, which he... didn't want to do. For reasons.

"Sorry I lashed out at you. I guess I was worried." And there it was, a trying smile, brief and tentative.

Swindle scoffed at first, but Blurr was completely sincere - it echoed in his field. It was amazing how easy it seemed to come to him.

Swindle was terribly good at staying mad. Not for its own sake, of course, but when it suited him. What he wasn't really good at was being sincere. Though considering some of the recent events, he suspected Blurr of slipping something into his drinks that turned his usual habits on their head.

Wouldn't that be funny.

"Want some more?"

"I'll pass."

"Suit yourself." Blurr poured a generous amount for himself, gulping down a half quickly and nearly coughing it out in the next klik.

"You okay?" Swindle frowned. The blue mech smiled again.

"Never better."

"It isn't really meant to drink this quickly," Swindle noted. "You want to savour it."

"What-- like this?" Blurr took a terribly slow sip, leaning his helm back. Swindle could just see his fuel lines along other neck cables.

"Yes," he answered. What in the Pit was that static in his voice? "Eh, you may be overdoing it."

Blurr brought the glass down and grinned. "A bartender should know these things. See, I'm learning."

Swindle really wanted to kiss him again.

"Maybe you could show me?" Blurr asked, twirling the bottle on his finger.

Swindle gulped. His comm line beeped. “Acropolex district, intersection A304, low grey building. You have one hour."

Oh, slag.

 

Blurr hadn't kissed him since that night, which was, well. Alright. Okay. He didn't mind.

Except that Swindle kinda wished he did, and the fact that it was still on his mind when he was going to Sidewinder - that was just enough proof that he was starting to have trouble distinguishing between the time he spent in the bar, warmth and lights and drinks, ex-cons and bots and NAILs mixed together and no care in the world except for Blurr's inability to deal with the paperwork - and his _job_.

Which meant it was time to put a stop to one or the other. Nevermind that one was kind of depending on success of another.

"You don't usually make appointments at these hours," he noted on entering the den. Pit, how did they come by those places?

"What? Too busy getting wasted?" Sidewinder asked, smirking. His companion whose name Swindle had yet to find out - he was _meaning_  to make enquiries, but every time he left them he felt so-- so disgusted he headed straight for the bar and promptly forgot about _everything_ , - was throwing glances at him from the shadows by the exit.

Swindle frowned. So they knew enough to know about Maccadam's. Well - alright, it was no wonder. The bar was rapidly becoming popular.

_They knew he frequented it._

He shook his helm, trying to get rid of the thoughts, and smirked. "You would benefit from the same."

"Oh, I assure you, we have access to all kinds of great engex."

_And poisons._

"Anyhow, I'm done with the last one," Swindle said. "Here's the datapad with all you need to know, how about we finish this up, _bye_."

"Not so fast." Sidewinder smiled a crooked smile and held up his hand. Well, if you could call it a hand. Limb.

Swindle ex-vented. "Yes?"

"We're terribly pleased with what we've got, but there's another task we'd like you to perform. Nothing too difficult, it's just that we'd like to know a little more. Besides, you could tell us about what you did, we're ever so curious."

Pit. What was he, their private snooping turbofox? Frag, slag it all, of course he'd do it, they could see him.

Swindle scowled. "Alright."

"Mmmm," Sidewinder hummed in agreement. "Care to share a drink?"

 

"You went off so quickly yesterday," Blurr noted, brightening upon seeing Swindle enter.

"Yeah, well, something came up," he muttered. What was the matter with him? He remembered the days he loved doing his job, remembered the thrill of playing on both sides, the satisfaction of seemingly exceeding the client's expectation while doing nothing out of the ordinary, the pleasure of outsmarting everyone.

Now, there was the dull dark world outside, and the warmth and light of Maccadam's, and every day he felt as though he had to choose. He didn't want to choose, he just wished he felt as half as alive out _there_ as he had in here.

"Glad you found time to drop by. You know tonight's special." Blurr wiggled his optical ridges.

"What? Oh noo," the merchant moaned, catching the sight of the group by the scene.

"I had no idea you hated poetry this much."

"It's not poetry in itself, it's... ugh." He had no desire to explain how his early days with the Decepticons had permanently spoiled the whole genre for him. "If you had to listen to Megatron's poems as rendered by the DJD, you'd understand."

Blurr barked a short soft laugh. "Let me soften the blow with some energon," he said, hand patting Swindle's right one absentmindedly.

"Yeah, okay."

There was an unusual number of participants today. Poetry night was not that rare an occurrence, but Swindle already managed to happily forget the latest one. Probably had to do with how he got absolutely star-sabered that night. Poetry just... made him feel weird. Weird in a weird way.

_And now that the time is right_  
For the speed of blue light  
And the fields collide, but stay apart  
It could happen almost any night  
After too much engex or a casual touch  
But nothing is ever too much  
So one stays and the other departs 

Swindle choked on his drink. What - the Pit - was _that_?

"It's Sky-Byte's newest, apparently," Blurr remarked. Did Swindle say that out loud? "Didn't you listen to the intro?" 

Swindle kind of spaced out there a little. Did Blurr seriously not understand what - _whom_ \- the shark was implying?

"You don't get poetry at all, do you?"

"Nah. But they enjoy themselves." The bartender shrugged. "Good enough for me."

Swindle nodded, trying not to listen to Sky-Byte too much lest he understood even more implications. He knew - of course he knew about the discussions, the betting. Primus knew how Blurr managed to remain oblivious to them, they didn't even tried to be discreet that hard.

But Blurr remained quiet all throughout the poem, except for coughing occasionally - really, what was up with that? - so Swindle didn't try to strike up a conversation. It would be... impolite, probably.

Primus, he still remembered how to behave properly during poetry readings. 

"Anyway, how is your business going?" Blurr asked conversationally once the rumbling applause died down - it seemed like Sky-Byte's talent had been gaining its fans. The bartender was twirling a glass between his fingers, and prying one’s gaze away from that unabashed show of skills was surprisingly difficult.

"Don't," Swindle said with a wince.

"That bad?" Blurr chuckled. "Well look at that! Is my business actually _blooming_ in comparison with yours? And to think that - hmmm, who was it that said on numerous occasions that I'm doomed to fail? Wait, let me recall--"

Swindle spluttered. "I _know_  I said that! Primus, rub that in my faceplace a bit more, would you!"

Blurr laughed long and heartily, and Swindle barely noticed his own scowl turning into a sincere grin.

 

The heavy mood that had been weighing down on him so much recently seemed to have finally evaporated the moment the poetry reading was finally over - or maybe, maybe a bit earlier, when Blurr's field was thrumming just so, and Swindle felt giddy and warm, despite drinking only a little.

So it was quite a surprise, when the next day the wide "I have the best bar on Cybertron" grin had been replaced with a half-hearted smile.

Swindle frowned, but tried not to let it get to him. He'd been looking forward to Maccadam's even more this evening, one small deal on the side taking an unexpected amount of his time, but, uh, alright. Blurr was a busy bartender. With bills. Maybe he just had a lot on his mind.

It took a _terribly_ long time to finally catch him alone.

"Drink with me, would you?" Swindle suggested the moment Blurr finally seemed to be lingering behind the counter, not rushing from one corner of the bar to another. Maybe if he just got Blurr to unwind a bit?..

The blue mech hummed in response, but poured two drinks for them both, drank his own quickly and turned away.

"What's up with you?" Swindle asked, almost grabbing his arm; he stopped himself at the last moment.

"It's nothing," Blurr shook his helm, and winced out of nowhere.

Swindle reached out with his field tentatively and was startled when he finally felt Blurr's - withdrawn and cold. He frowned. Did _he_ do something?

"Hey," he said slowly. "Don't close off like that. Did some clot skip reading the rules again? Did I miss some brawl?" Because it had to do with the bar, right? That was all Blurr cared about these days.

Blurr ex-vented.

"No, the bar's fine. It's just, I'm not feeling that well at the moment."

And that was that? He had to act all aloof just because he was a little sick?

"Well, then you should go to the medic," Swindle reasoned. Blurr didn't say anything and never looked him in the optics. "What?!"

"Like you're the one to talk," the bartender muttered, finally. “Your hypocrisy is astounding.”

Well, that was plainly uncalled for. His field flared angrily, almost beyond his control, and Blurr flinched as if he could feel it. Attuned to each other as they were, he probably could, and the thought was... unsettling. Swindle scowled, suddenly beyond uncomfortable. The Pit was Blurr doing, making him feel like-- like--

And he was still standing there like it all wasn't his fault!

"Oh don't make this about me! I feel okay!" Swindle bristled, crossing his arms over his chestplate. Blurr continued to stubbornly evade his gaze. Dang, what was _wrong_ with him?

What were they even arguing about? Did it matter if Blurr looked as if polishing the glasses was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world? Slag him; slag everything about it, really.

"I should go," Swindle grumbled.

"It's too late," Blurr said - as he was just stating the obvious, not replying to Swindle at all, neither agreeing nor protesting. As if the ex-con was already gone.

Swindle nodded, and trying to escape something heavy lingering in the air, walked out, feeling guilty for no reason, as if he should have done something, without any idea what it was.

 

On the seventh day, he came in late. Much too late.

The ex-racer didn't say anything, didn't smile, and it was just as _uncomfortable_ as yesterday. Swindle pondered if maybe he should say something - apologise? For what? It was _Blurr_ who always did the apologising. Blurr who did everything: the hugs, the touches, everything suddenly absent from their interaction. Dammit! And once again, he could never quite get a hold of him. Swindle saw Sky-Byte calling the bartender over and followed Blurr with his gaze, shaking his helm in frustration. What was bothering him? Something was out of place here, besides the lack of touching— yes. Blurr's pace, too careful, his field held tight. Suddenly the ex-con recalled yesterday - what Blurr actually told him _before_ everything else. Damn, he should have asked first thing upon coming in; he hopped off the stool to go find the bartender and demand answers, but the moment he turned, he found himself face to face with the one he was looking for.

"Swindle," Blurr said, his expression hard like he'd never seen it before. He could actually hear his engine knocking. Was he going to apologise?.. "Swindle, there's something wrong. More wrong, I mean. I can't-- I can't feel my t-cog. I thought it was just rusty this morning, but now it feels... numb."

Swindle froze.

"And I went out and I couldn't change shape."

It sounded-- it sounded just like--

"Blurr--" he said weakly.

"I think... I need to go see a medic." His optics flickered.

It was-- it couldn't be, but it was, just the same symptoms as he experienced so recently. Only--

Blurr reached blindly for something, pushing a glass off,  until his hand reached Swindle's.

\--much quicker.

"Blurr? Are you alright?" Sky-Byte asked, uncertainly, coming up to the bar. "Do you need--"

Blurr coughed, grasped Swindle's hand for good measure and slowly crumbled to the floor.

Swindle stared at the bar counter, unmoving. Around him, he heard noise, shouting, someone tried grabbing him, grabbing the blue mech's still frame. They-- they did this to Blurr as well? But _how_?

He looked at the bar counter, at the pink engex splattered all over it. At Blurr's crumpled form. Blurr, pouring himself a drink after drink. Blurr, praising the sweet - _sweet_ - engex.

Oh _slag._

"Swindle!" he heard a roar, breaking him from the trance. Later; later, everything later, he had to act now.

"Slug! Tankor! _Anybody_ , get him to the med-centre, I'll be there in a few kliks--"

"What does this all mean? Do you _know_ \--"

"Blurr's been poisoned!" he yelled out, running through the entrance.

He had to rush to his place, had to get the stash of the antidote. He could only hope he had enough for whatever dose Sidewinder and his crew decided to dump into the cannister meant, obviously, for _him_.

 

All the way to the med-centre he couldn't stop thinking. Would the amount he had stashed away be enough? How long had it been going on - no, well, _obviously_ it was those seven days starting from the point he offered Blurr to try his favourite engex, and as he always added the antidote that screwed up with the taste, he couldn't sense - didn't even think there would be something _else_ in there, and to think that _they knew what his favourite drink was--_

"Stop _worrying_! I can _sense_ you thinking," Slug snapped from under him.

"Or, excuse me for not being an egoistical Dinobot!" Swindle retorted.

He supposed he was being a little unfair. After all, Slug did offer him a ride _in his altmode_  when he noticed Swindle rushing away from the bar on his feet.

Slug didn't grace him with an answer; thankfully, they were nearly at the med-centre.

"What in the Pit, Swindle?!" 

And he was already waited for.

Wheeljack was standing in front of the entrance with his arms crossed and his expression darkened upon seeing the ex-con.

"What?" Swindle hopped off the Dinobot. "Get out of the way and let me in--"

"Not so fast! Tankor already commed me about what happened."

Tankor?! Why would Tankor even be talking with-- oh, right. The other Tankor.

"And?" Swindle stared at him, furrowing his optical bridges. He tried to get past Wheeljack, but the scientist seemed quite adamant _and_ was a good head taller than him.

"What did you do to Blurr?” he demanded.

“ _Me_? I’m trying to save him, you lughead!”

“Uh-uh. Telling everyone he got poisoned and running out? What are you coming here for? Finally got a conscience? Or came to finish him off? Seriously, Swindle, you know I don't usually get suspicious just because someone used to be a _con_ involved in a number of _terribly shady deals_ and—“

"Hey, hey!" Slug interrupted him, coming up from behind. "Cut it out. He didn't do it. Swindle's all kinds of things, but he's not that good an actor. I could smell his worry from miles away, and he's here to help Blurr, so let him in."

Swindle stared at him in astonishment. Wheeljack seemed equally as shocked.

“I know you’re worried, but seriously, whoever it is, Swindle is the least likely candidate. You missed some serious stuff while you were out of commission. But let me tell you, it’s not that late to join our betting pool—“

“I’ll _leave you two alone_ ,” Swindle growled.

Wheeljack ex-vented and let him in.

“So I’ve cooked up this nice concoction, we might try it…” Quickmix was saying to Flatline inside.

“You might need this,” Swindle called out. The chemist turned to him quickly and rushed over.

“Oh! Is this…”

“The antidote. Yeah. I hope it'll be enough. Is he-- oh Pit."

Blurr's frame was-- looked, felt - absolutely lifeless. His optics were offline and Swindle couldn't catch even a soft whiff of a field. Seeing the usually energetic mech like this, looking for all intents and purposes offline... but he did see him like this, in the past few days. He could've noticed-- he _did_ notice Blurr moving less, moving slower, he should've known something was wrong, if Blurr was too proud to come to him before - how bad did it get before he responded to his insistent prodding yesterday?

"He's stable," Flatline commented, coming up to the berth. "Well. As stable as he can be. As soon as we administer the antidote, if it _does_  have the proper effect--"

"It will," Swindle cut him off. It'll have to. It _must_.

"If you're sure." Flatline's optics flashed. "Give it to me."

Swindle handed him several bottles with silvery liquid and slumped down in the chair. Right, wait. He could do that. He did that all the time.

His spark rolled stupidly, uselessly in its chamber.

 

"Hrrrrrk."

"Blurr?"

"Hhhhurts." Blurr's optics flickered. Swindle saw them try to focus several times before they finally fixed on-- on him. "Hhrrrrkgain?"

The ex-con shook his helm wordlessly.

"No, it was-- wasn't me."

He meant both: the poisoning and the rescue, wasn't him, could never be him - yet it was him who insisted Blurr drink along, time and time again. Stupid, so stupid: Swindle was much more used to the usual poisons, his systems more resilient, but also more ready to identify the contaminant. He would figure it out in two days top, he would get the antidote, and there, over.

But even if he felt it-- the agony Blurr was in, it would be better, it would be preferable, and that thought slowed down his entire processor.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

Blurr was silent, and Swindle didn't dare look.

"You... got in the way. I thought these NAILs meant business when obviously it was just a convenient means to-- to get me. I've been played." He buried his helm in his hands.

"Get you?" the blue mech asked quietly.

"Agh, don't ask me why-- I _should_ 've researched them, it's just. I was getting desperate, and they were _there_ , so easy and convenient. And they slipped something in my drink every time we met. I _knew_ that, but figured that for a precaution. So I wouldn't sell them out. It happens." He shrugged. "Never figured they would go so far as to poison an entire cannister of engex-- in your _bar_ , no less. Primus, I'm sorry. I know I'm not the most trustworthy mech out there, but I never meant for this to happen."

Blurr was silent for a long while.

"So much good stuff gone to waste," he said finally and then laughed at the incredulous look on Swindle's faceplates. He laughed and coughed and laughed, and Swindle smiled helplessly.

Something inside him ached, and ached, and there was no soothing and no antidote.


End file.
